


Hollow leg

by wordswehavesaid



Series: Tumblr prompts [11]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, drunk!oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswehavesaid/pseuds/wordswehavesaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver challenges Barry to a friendly drinking game. Of course, he might've thought better of it if he'd realized just what the Flash's high-speed metabolism meant for Barry's tolerance...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow leg

It wasn’t like he’d gone into it with an evil plan or anything. He’s one of the good guys, after all. And Oliver’s his friend. His really good friend and fellow vigilante who he and the rest of both their teams were getting drinks with after another successful team-up.

They go around the table giving their orders to the waitress that greets them to get started, and Oliver on his left says, “I’ll have tequila.”

Which is then followed by his, “Water for me, thanks.” But then the older man looks at him sharply. “What?”

“Seriously, water?” He looks highly amused by this, one eyebrow arched perfectly. “Figures you’d start the night off strong.”

Barry sighs, prepared to start the same tired explanation. “Well I don’t - wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Oliver replies in a tone that ought to be placating, if it weren’t for the open smirk on his face.

He scowls back before turning to the waitress with a decidedly more apologetic expression, “I’m sorry, apparently I’m getting tequila.”

“Dude,” Cisco attempts to interject, looking at him clearly perplexed.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Oliver asks right over over him however, a challenging glint to his eyes, and that’s way more important. Barry just nods, and that light in the other man’s eyes gets a little brighter. “Alright.”

When their glasses are placed in front of them, Felicity proposes a toast. “To partners. Friendship and team-ups that we all treasure very dearly and don’t want to do anything we might regret later to endanger them.” She’s looking at the pair of them very pointedly.

Any chance that Barry might just quail on this before it’s begun dies when he exchanges a glance with Oliver. “Nothing wrong with a little friendly competition, Felicity,” the other man says, looking at him with warm humor and just a hint of challenge.

Barry lifts his glass and clinks it against the other vigilante’s in reply. “To partners.” Of course when he tries to knock it back in the practiced manner Oliver does, he nearly gags on the taste alone, as that he certainly does still experience.

Oliver barks a laugh and rests a hand on Barry’s back, probably just trying to be condescending when he rubs it soothingly. “Maybe we should have got you that water after all.”

It’s some number of hours and an ungodly amount of drinks that total up to some amount that would ordinarily have his wallet crying later that Barry’s prepared to admit this little bit of subterfuge on his part was maybe not a good idea. Nearly everyone else has either made their own way out of the bar - Cisco and Diggle giving him a thumbs up and a suspicious look respectively - leaving just Caitlin and a ridiculous number of empty glasses around them.

Barry tried to beg off more than once, honestly. Competitive as the two of them are, this really isn’t fair to Oliver. Of course, when he brought up the issue of not wanting to go for broke, it had been soundly dismissed, the other man demanding he let him cover the tab. It turns out Oliver’s apparently a very belligerent drunk when he wants to be.

But the Starling vigilante’s gotten to that total three sheets to the wind, glassy-eyed stare, laughing at everything Barry says whether it’s a joke or not  _plastered_ and he’s maybe gotten more of a kick out of watching that happen than he can ever remember from alcohol.

“You know, you’re going to have to get him back to his place,” Caitlin points out, mercifully aware enough to be sitting calmly and waiting for a cab. “He’ll fall on his face before he can walk to the bar for a drink, much less the hotel.”

“’M not gonna fall,” Oliver insists with a shake of his head that he aborts when he nearly tips right off the stool. “Oh God.”

“Ok, big guy, let’s get you home,” Barry decides. He pulls Oliver up by an arm, intending to just help him get to his feet. But when the older man practically falls forward into him, he figures it’s best to simply shift them so he’s got one of Oliver’s arms slung over his shoulders. He stumbles them right into the bar, supporting most of the former billionaire’s weight as he seems to prefer to lean against Barry still even while signing the check that’s placed in front of him without even looking at the total.

“Don’ think I’vad this much since college. This party a’Tommy’s house,” Oliver’s breath is hot on his neck while he chuckles at some memory into his shoulder on the way out the door, and Barry’s not sure if it’s that or the fact that this is the first time Oliver’s ever had anything to say to him about Tommy that isn’t about his death that sends a strange sort of tingle down his spine.

“Ok, Oliver? I need you to tell me which hotel you guys are staying in,” he regrets having to interject, but the man is sort of heavy. And they really shouldn’t be out on the streets like this.

“I…I don’ remem’er,” is the reply he gets. “Shit.”

He tries not to groan. Calling Felicity or Dig at this hour would just be rude, and anyway this is all his fault. He’ll just have to fix it. “You can stay the night in my room, then.” Barry starts shifting his grip in preparation to bodily lift the broader vigilante and warns, “Hold on, ok?”

Then they’re off, the scruff of Oliver’s beard brushing the underside of his jaw before the other man tucks his head against the winds and the rush of noise and color he has to assume. He runs straight up into his room, not wanting to explain to Joe if the cop’s at home. Then he’s dumping Oliver onto the bed and dashing to the bathroom for some water and the aspirin the poor man’s going to need in the morning. He figures he’ll just grab some blankets and a pillow and make up the couch for himself tonight.

“Barrrrrrry,” Oliver slurs, catching his arm and pulling him down to sit hard on the bed. He has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to keep from bursting out laughing. “Barrrry?”

“Yeah, Olllllie?” He can’t help teasing back in reply.

“Are you drunk?”

That really does break his resolve, and it takes him a moment to calm enough and shake his head. “No.”

Oliver’s staring at him, completely dumbfounded and a little awed if he’s reading his expression right. Which he thinks he is, since their faces are so close, the other man determinedly propping himself up on an elbow. “…how?”

“High-speed metabolism. I can’t get drunk,” he finally reveals.

He thinks he can see the exact moment Oliver works in out in his intoxicated mind. A hint of the man’s usually gruff exterior shows in his expression as he growls. “You  _asshole_.” Barry’s nearly crying with laughter at this point, and maybe that’s how a drunk man’s still able to grab hold of him and roll them both over so his back hits the mattress and he’s the one looking up at the other vigilante now. “I oughtta put another arrow’n you.”

“Hey, I thought we agreed this was friendly competition, no hurting people,” he argues with a smug grin.

“No promises. ’m gonna have the biggest hangover tomorrow anit’s all your fault,” the other man practically growls.

Barry’s not too worried, though, and shrugs. “You’ll still love me.”

He doesn’t know what makes him say it, and the instant he does he nearly wants to go reverse time to stop himself from doing it because  _what the hell, Barry, you idiot_.

Except rather than having Oliver look at him weird or pushing him off the bed or any other perfectly acceptable response in that sort of situation, his whole face just goes…soft. Fond.

“Yeah. I will.” And then his face is tilting downward and all the Speed Force in the world couldn't prepare Barry to move away from the bump of noses and clumsy lips against his own.

It’s a kiss. The sloppiest kiss of his life and yet once he’s worked past the shock Barry moans and tilts his head for a better angle, his eyes flutter shut, and his hands grip Oliver’s shirt, pulling him down closer,  _more_.

Because even drunk off his ass Oliver Queen is an expert kisser.

They both taste of tequila and there’s a tongue in his mouth alarmingly quick but it’s just  _good_  and  _unbelievable_  and there’s  _no way_  Oliver would ever do this - if he were sober.

Barry pulls off with a gasp. “Oliver, Oliver wait -  _ohh_  - wait!”

Oliver very reluctantly stops mouthing at his neck. “Whatsa matter?”

“We- we can’t. I mean, you’re drunk, you don’t even know what you’re doing.”

That gets him an unimpressed look. “You tellin’ me I‘ma bad kisser?”

“No!” He blurts, then clears his throat. “I mean, no. But you probably don’t want- you wouldn’t want to be kissing me if you weren’t drunk.”

“Think so? Fine, we’ll see in the mornin’. Tired anyway.” And then he drops his head to rest on Barry’s chest, asleep mere seconds later. Barry bites his lip and forces himself to look up at the ceiling instead, trying not to contemplate all the painful ways he’s going to die tomorrow.

By morning, they’ve mostly untangled and Barry wakes up to find Oliver’s head buried under one of his pillows, the water and aspirin gone. He’s able to smile shakily at that. But still, Oliver is awake.

He zips over to his bedroom curtains and pulls them shut in what will hopefully be perceived as a reason to forgive him. Still though, best to just rip the band aid off.

So he comes to stand by Oliver’s side of the bed. Then thinks better of it, and sits so that he’s not looming over the poor man. He touches a hand to his shoulder. “Oliver? About last night, I’m really–”

“Barry,” Oliver groans, and he takes that to mean ‘not now’. Which he probably should have expected.

“Right, ok. Uh, anything I can get you right now?”

“Yeah,” is the grunt he gets in reply. Then the older man’s shoving the pillow aside and fisting Barry’s sweater in his free hand, dragging him down to meet his lips.

Oh. He’d been wrong. And he’s never been happier to be wrong in his life.


End file.
